with them was dreaded a little, yet Madeleine, at all events, longed unspeakably to see them. Her mother had not been strong lately, and Madeleine had lain awake at night, anxiously picturing her going about her work with a little less spirit than before, and she sometimes felt as though she must start up and go and see for herself how she really was. Her letters gave no signs of depression, but were still the daughter's comfort and treasure.

But when the day came Mr. Clifford arrived alone.

It was delightful to have her father with her, to walk home with her arm in his, and to listen to his loving voice; but her mother had not come, and Madeleine's heart was full of a thousand things which she would have poured out to her in quiet talk, or some of which could not be talked about, but the mother would have read for herself in her child's face.

"Your mother sent her fondest love to you, my child, but you know she is not very well, and Dr. Long would not let her come. Perhaps she may follow with Willie in a week or so, but Long says that agitation must always be avoided for her now. I am afraid her heart is not strong. None of the others know it, Maddie; but we must be very careful for the future to keep from her anything distressing or harassing. If we do that, Long says she may be very fairly well for years to come. She is longing to have you back,

Maddie."

"O, papa, I do long to be with you all," her promise, but could not speak of it now. now that you are come."

then she remembered "I feel quite different

Mr. Clifford's presence was just the filling up of the need in the sick room. Gerald had always been reserved on any religious subjects, and though both Madeleine and Mr. Grantley had reproached themselves for not trying to find out what were his inward feelings in the prospect of the awful change that was coming, yet nobody had dared to break the ice.

On Sundays the invalid would listen attentively while they read one or two of the psalms or lessons to him, and now and then they at other times noticed that as they entered the room he closed a little prayer book which lay on his bed; but yet he could bear so little, and when he could bear anything they were so anxious to cheer and amuse him, that the days passed by, and the only matter of importance to the dying man was never mentioned. But when Mr. Clifford came

religion entered too as a matter of course. The grateful smile gleamed involuntarily on the pallid face on his first greeting, showing the relief that the sick man felt. His father-in-law put his tender hand in histhat hand so well used to give the comforting touch of sympathyand said in his gentle but cheering voice,

"Well, Gerald, how are you to-day, my dear fellow? GOD is drawing you to Himself by a rough road, but He is helping you to bear the journey bravely."

There was no reserve between them after that beginning.

Poor Blanche, her heart, fast breaking, found comfort in joining in the brief daily service held in the room of death, just at whatever time the sufferer could best bear it. Mr. Clifford was always the priest, yet ever a cheery companion; he and Hubert Grantley were the stay of the house, and amid the gathering clouds the silver lining of hope shone clear, even when they rested upon the grave of the beloved husband and father.

The funeral was over.

IV.

Mr. Clifford had returned to his parish; Mrs. Clifford was to come to Southbourne in a short time, if possible; -to-morrow Hubert Grantley was to go to Wales.

widow was poor

The sleeping for sorrow," in her room,—that heavy sleep from which the waking is so terrible,-little Gerald had gone out to tea, for the poor child had lately looked wan and frightened, and change and amusement were needful for him.

Madeleine strolled into the garden, and gathering a handful of white roses, sat down and began to arrange them into a cross for the newlymade grave :—their dazzling whiteness formed a strange contrast with the deep mourning dress on which they lay.

As Hubert Grantley came towards her she looked up with a smile of welcome. They were old friends now, and there was no need of words just for talking's sake; so they were silent for a few moments whilst Madeleine went on with her work, and he stood before her playing with a branch of the overhanging tree and watching her as she sat with her head bent down, the sunlight flickering through the leaves on her bright chestnut hair. Presently he spoke,

"I shall be far away to-morrow at this time; I do not like to think of it."

"But you are going to see your mother, how glad she must be; you must thank her from us for sparing you so long."

"You will let me know sometimes how you all are," he went on, "I may ask that I could not bear to lose sight of you, even for a time."

"Oh, no," she responded quickly, then stopped abruptly.

"I hope your mother will come, Miss Clifford. It was so hard for you when your father came without her." Madeleine looked up wonderingly. "I could see how much you were disappointed. I am so afraid you will overtax your strength in nursing your sister-" She trembled a little. "You want change-thorough change and restyou want somebody to nurse you." She trembled exceedingly, but he drew nearer. "You must know how infinitely precious your life is-to me.-Perhaps I ought not to speak now, but oh, Madeleine," how her heart thrilled as her name passed his lips,—“ I must tell that there is one who longs to tend you, to care for you, and bear your joys and sorrows,one heart wholly yours. Can my love comfort you, my own darling?" He was by her side now, clasping her hands; but her head was only bent lower and her face was growing ghastly pale. "Have I distressed you?" he said. "O, forgive me, but I could not help hoping,-hoping that GOD would grant me the precious gift of your love!"

you

She looked up now, but when she met his yearning eyes she shuddered, and said in a hollow voice,

"I can't, you must not say any more-please don't. I am so sorry you care for me."

Even as she said it her heart told her how untrue she was. "" 'Sorry?" Oh, no, though she must reject it all, yet to have had the possession of that love for one moment was worth more to her than all the rest of her life. Why not lay down her weary head and rest in that precious love? Why not stretch out her hand and take that priceless treasure that lay within her reach? Why not be happy for ever? Because a promise is sacred, and she was pledged to give her life up to her sister, and she must not bind him-her dearest-with the dim prospect of being able to be his at some distant day. She entreated him to cease his passionate pleading, and not to ask her any more, and then she saw him walk away, and stealing up to her room, all her roses left scattered on the grass,—she locked the door, and threw herself on the bed in a passion of bitter weeping.

How desolate the house seemed when that bright presence was gone, —when that cheery voice and free step no longer sounded about its rooms and passages; what a blank was there instead in Madeleine's heart. Life lay before her, dull and aimless-so it seemed at first— and she was young yet, only twenty. Oh, if she could but sleep over some years and not have to bear her youth! How could anybody rejoice in a long life? She would wake up from a bright dream,—she had had such lately,-and turn to her hope, and with a shuddering pang find that it was gone. It was well for her that work was ready to her hand. Blanche was very ill for a time, and quite occupied her: nobody could smooth her pillows, nobody prepare her food, but Lina; and Lina must teach little Gerald, and not let him forget things which his papa had taught him;-and then her mother was coming-that dear face and voice would bring comfort, even though the great sorrow must be kept from her.

Mrs. Clifford saw that her child had suffered by all she had gone through, and was distressed to see her heavy eyes and the evident effort with which she roused herself to be cheerful, but naturally all was to be accounted for by her responsibility and nursing in the sick room and house of mourning.

The mother and daughter were strolling together in the garden one early morning before Blanche was up, and talking of home,-for Madeleine's eyes always grew bright with interest when her mother gave her details of the parish, or told her about Willie's college life or her sisters' pursuits.

"I have a little plan for you," said Mrs. Clifford, "I know what will do you good; ; you shall go back with Willie when he comes next week, and I will stay with dear Blanche: you will enjoy home, and it will refresh you to be away from Southbourne for a while."

The tears rose to Madeleine's eyes as her mother spoke; she was so unnerved just now, that even a word of sympathy was enough to call them forth, and the thought of home-the idea of a positive pleasure-made her lip quiver and her heart rise to her mouth.

"I should like it, mamma, very much, but how will you get on? I shall not feel home complete, either, without you."

"No, dearest, I hope not, and I trust that we may persuade dear Blanche to come to Brookwood by-and-by. You could not help your promise, dear, but I cannot bear that one of my children should be sacrificed for another. The Lancashire air would do her no harm now;

tr

it was different just on her return from India, and with the delicate health she then had; but, poor darling! we must not urge her yet." She will never consent to leave Southbourne, mamma," Madeleine answered in a sad, decided tone; only last night she said that she should die directly if she were not within sight of the grave-she chose that place, you know, which she can see from her window, and it is pitiful to watch her lying there gazing for ever across the churchyard."

Madeleine could not help crying a little, and her mother stroked her hair with her soft hand, as she leant against her.

They were close to the tree under which Madeleine had sat, making her cross of roses, only a few days before-even now a few white leaves lay scattered there. Mrs. Clifford was saying: "Your father took to that young man who was here, so much, Mr. Grantley, I mean. He said that he never met with a more simple, loving spirit than his must have been a great help all through the illness."

he

'Yes, a great help, mamma.' Madeleine's voice was calm and slow.

"I suppose you were too much taken up with Blanche to see very much of him, and yet sorrow makes one know a person very quickly."

'Yes, mamma, I saw a good deal of him, but of course he devoted himself to dear Gerald-we must always look upon him as a friend :" the words came so cold and strange from her lips, but when her mother said, "Let us sit down under this pretty willow for a little, darling;" then she cried, " Please not here, mamma!" and, checking herself, she added, "It is so damp, you see how long the grass is; they have neglected the mowing lately, you know." The conversation was turned, to Madeleine's relief, and she talked almost brightly as they went back to the house to arrange with Blanche about the visit to Brookwood.

The following week Willie came, bringing sunshine again into the sad house. Madeleine threw herself into his interests, and he unconsciously helped to divert her thoughts and amuse her. Then, too, he allured poor Blanche first into the garden and then on to the fresh common, and romped with little Gerald. Mrs. Clifford rejoiced when she entered Blanche's room one morning, and found her pausing in her dressing to watch, with a real smile upon her face, the bright youth stretched on the grass in merry gambols with his little nephew, whose joyous laugh made the air ring.